


Concussion

by crayonbreakygal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreaming Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Sexual Content, sherlock hit his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9631709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayonbreakygal/pseuds/crayonbreakygal
Summary: Sherlock manages to hit his head. Takes place sometime early season four.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something totally fluffy since I'm working on two multichapter fics that are very dark. Cleanses the brain. And I wanted to use the word "bros". Sexy times, but nothing very graphic in nature.

Concussion

Takes place possibly early season four, before baby Rosie is born.

“You’ve no trousers on.”

Sherlock looked all around him, wondering why Molly was staring at him, wide eyed and clearly blushing.

“Well, you see.”

“What do you have on underneath your coat?”

If he mumbled nothing, would she be embarrassed?  Having solved yet another mystery for Lestrade, he and John actually took the tube, for goodness sake. It turned into a nightmare of biblical proportions.  He couldn’t get John’s laughter out of his head.

“Accident. In the tube. It was awful.”

“And you saw fit not to change?”

“Didn’t want to waste time.  The body?”

Sherlock pointed to where Lestrade had told them the body was being taken.

“Oh, Mr. Cooper.  Just finished him up and was writing the report.”

“Findings?”

Molly kept smiling at him, looking this way and that at him.

“You’re quite pale, even your feet.”

“Focus, Dr. Hooper.”

His exasperation with her inquiries was getting tedious.

“I wonder if you’re pale all over.”

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table in front of him.

“This is all well and good, but could we keep our minds, and possibly our bodies focused on the task at hand.”

“Still, sort of hard to focus, if you know what I mean.”

Molly’s silly jokes were always corny and a bit stupid if he was asked.  Now she was delving into crass.

“Definitely not hard to focus, if you know where to look.”

Molly glanced down, eyes wandering up his front.

“No, still very hard.”

“John called you, didn’t he?”

Molly broke out into peals of laughter.

“I am so sorry, Sherlock. I had to, you know.”

Instead of chastising her for making jokes at his expense, he decided to turn the tables on her.  Slowly he made his way to her, backing her into a wall. She clutched the file around her middle, pen falling with a clunk onto the tile floor.

“Shall we view the body now, Dr. Hooper?” he asked, lowering his voice another octave.

The papers from the file tumbled down onto the floor, flooding the area with white. He took the time to flip up the collar on his Belstaff, watching as her tongue came out to wet her lips.

“Now if you would care to pull…”

“I’d pull…”

Sherlock took his hand and placed it over her warm mouth, knowing another joke was coming.

“I’ll warn you now, Dr. Hooper. Tread lightly.”

He could feel her hot breath against his palm, how soft her lips and skin were compared to his own.  His hand stayed as he watched her reaction to his touch, her pupils blown wide. It was when the tip of her tongue came out of that sinful mouth that he groaned just a little.

“Maybe you should not…”

Molly turned him, slamming him back against the wall, and wrenched his coat open.

“Not exactly pale all over,” she sighed as her hands started to roam inside the coat.

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock. Earth to Sherlock.”

He was dreaming.

Sherlock groaned as he attempted to sit up in his chair. He’d crouched down into it, wrapped his coat around him and watched crap telly until very late in the evening. Now he was paying for it. His back ached, as did one other part of his anatomy that he’d rather John not see.

“Stop with the rattling.”

“Lestrade wants answers.”

“Which I will give in short order.”

“Watching crap telly is not going to solve this problem.”

“I’m thinking. Go away.”

A shower would clear the cobwebs out so he could solve Lestrade’s bungled up case once and for all.  And he’d not dare to take the tube either. It gave him shivers.

The hot water eased his shoulder and back muscles to the point where he could move more easily.  His dreams of late were getting more and more graphic in nature, all having to do with one certain pathologist.  His pathologist. His Molly.

“My pathologist…”

“You don’t own her, Sherlock,” Lestrade had spat back at him.

He did indeed think he had some kind of claim over her since all that had happened between them.  Not that anything untoward had happened, just that they now were sort of friends, if he could actually have that many friends.

“Slept in that chair again, did you?”

His eyes popped open at the coolness of the shower door opening.

Dream, his mind shouted.  Good dream, but dream nonetheless.

Her small hands moved up and down his back, working out the kinks as they did.  They smoothed, dug into the right spots as needed.

“If you had come to bed like I’d asked.”

Sherlock almost choked when he heard her say that.

“I just hope you solved the case.”

Her hands worked through his hair, washing and rinsing.  Occasionally he could feel her pert breasts brush up against his back, making it tingle in places. He most definitely wanted to turn, to see her, to touch her, but didn’t want to break the spell that she had cast over him.

“I know of other ways to ease the tension.”

John and his large stash of porn videos. Borrowing his laptop had become an education all its own once Sherlock had found what John had hiding on the machine.  The things that people did to each other, all in the name of pleasure.

As he leaned his arms against the glass, he felt her hands work around and take him in hand. Stroking up and down with soapy hands, it didn’t take long for his hips to start pumping in time with her actions.

“Molly,” he growled as he came all over his stomach and the glass in front of him.

With his forehead pressed squarely against the glass in front of him, he looked down to see what had happened, realizing he was dozing in the shower, no Molly, no small, wonderful hands stroking him to completion.

 

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock’s head hung off his bed, pajamas all askew, sheets sliding as he attempted to right himself.

“Sure of what?”

“Of what we’re doing?”

Had he fallen asleep again?  It certainly felt like he was awake.

He watched as the figure in front of him slowly eased out of her own clothes.  Looking at her upside down was a bit dizzying, blood rushing to his skull in addition to rushing to another part of his anatomy at the same time.

“Most certainly,” he managed to get out before tumbling off the bed.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

As he looked up, he saw that she had tossed most of her clothes aside, only wearing a scrap of knickers and a smile.  And that scrap didn’t cover much.

“You’re beautiful.”

He only wore a dressing gown, so it didn’t take much deduction to realize where this was going.

“Would you like help?”

Molly reached her hand down to him.

“I like the view.”

 

“You like what?”

“I like the view.”

“He hit his head, I tell you.”

Sherlock looked up to see John, Lestrade and Molly look down at him. It was way too sunny outside and really did not smell all that wonderful.

“How many doctors does it take to check Sherlock over?”

“Very funny, Lestrade,” John shot back.

“He called,” Molly said as she looked back down at him.

“And you came.”

“He said it was a ten.”

She had a skirt on. It was a bit on the short side.  It was warm outside, but not overly so. The Belstaff provided a cushion on the hard ground where he’d landed.

“Molly, my head,” he whined.

“Oh Christ, what a baby,” John started.

“If you’re going to be cross with me, leave,” Sherlock admonished John.

“I’ll just walk over here while the pathologist figures out if you’re dead or not.”

John’s pitch in voice rose at the last few words, indicating to Sherlock he was quite ticked off at the moment.

Bending over him, Molly shined a light in his eyes. There, through a gap in the buttons of her shirt, he could see the creamy swell of a breast.  Moving ever so slightly, the bra shifted, almost exposing her. He wondered what she’d taste like, how she’d squirm against him if he reached up and pulled it down to his mouth.

He smelled her, relishing the scent of lemons and caustic chemicals that she used every day in her line of work. Only a good scrubbing would take the smell away.

Her skirt rode up her thighs, exposing the smoothness. Even crossing them a bit as she did, he could wonder at what she had hidden underneath.

“You must have hit your head.”

“How? I mean, yes, I must have, slipped I mean. I need medical assistance.”

“Let me have Lestrade and John help you up.”

“Oh, oh.  I can manage.  Just give me your arm.”

Scooting up, he leaned into her frame, feeling the heat roll off of her because of the temperature outside. His forehead landed on her neck, with his breath hot on her clavicle.  If he wasn’t looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed the shiver that went throughout her body.

“Molly, you are an angel.”

“Definitely hit your head.”

“You smell divine.”

“Concussion.”

He wanted just a quick taste.

“I wonder what your neck would taste like.”

“Brain damage.”

As Molly backed away, he almost fell to the ground again.

“You need an MRI.”

“Claustrophobia.”

“You cocoon yourself under the blankets for days on end,” John added.

Both John and Greg took a side and led him away.  It took most of the afternoon to get Sherlock an MRI, which did show that he had a concussion.

John took him back to Baker Street and ordered takeaway so that he might eat.  Sherlock frowned when he saw what John had ordered, and promptly attempted to throw it away.

“Eat. Doctor’s orders,” John chided.

“The doctor told you to make sure I don’t become dizzy, nauseated or lethargic. He said nothing about eating.”

“I am a doctor.  I order you to eat.”

“And if I don’t comply?”

“I’ll tell Molly.”

Sherlock sat up and spooned a big bite into his mouth, chewing loudly and forcefully.

Two hours later, the doctor in question showed up at his door, shaking her head at John.

“Thank you. I’ve got Mary to attend to. Her feet are so swollen, she can’t go to the grocery.”

“Go. I’ll take care of the big baby.”

Sherlock glared at the two as they talked right in front of him.

“Sitting right here.”

“No more symptoms?” Molly asked John, not even looking at Sherlock.

“Other than being unbelievably whiny, which is fairly normal.  Anyway. I’m off.”

“I’ve got it.  I’ve dealt with toddlers before. Not a problem.”

Sherlock gaped at Molly, wanting to shoot back at her that he indeed was not acting like a toddler.

“Yes, you are,” John shot back as he started to leave.

“Are not.”

“Most definitely are.”

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at the man’s retreating back.

“Toddler.”

Molly grinned down at him, showing him that unbelievably adorable dimple she had. Oh dear, he thought.  Maybe his head was a bit scrambled.  His thinking was heading the wrong way, yet again.

“Have you slept or eaten?”

“I ate.  No sleep, yet.”

“Come.”

Molly stuck her small hand out for him to take. Even with all the activities she performed during the day, her hands were still soft to the touch. 

“Where are we going?” he asked as she led him into his bedroom.

“The doctor said you need to rest.  No brain activities, alright?  You need to turn off that big brain of yours.”

Sherlock swallowed, eyes darting around his room.  Dust motes danced in the fading light of the afternoon.  Molly’s back was to the window, making it seem like there was a halo over her head.

“Down on the bed. Now,” she ordered.

Sherlock didn’t think a groan would get him anywhere, so he complied, lying on the right side.  Molly climbed in beside him.

“I thought you said no activity,” he asked as he turned his body toward her.

“Silly. Just relax,” she soothed him.

Her hands came up to stroke through his unruly hair, taking care to not hit the area where he’d taken the blow to the head.

“Close your eyes.”

Even though he decided to follow her orders, it was difficult to concentrate on falling asleep with her by his side.  He really wanted to bury his face in her neck, draw her up against him. They’d done that many times at her flat, but never at Baker Street.

“You’re thinking too much,” she singsonged.

Rolling over to his side, her hands dipped down to his neck and shoulders, easing tense muscles, lulling him into a doze.  Before he drifted off, he could feel her arms come around his body, pulling him close. It was usually the other way around, with him pulling her close to him, not the other way around. This he could get used to, if she’d let him.

 

At some point, Sherlock had shifted, rolled and tucked Molly into his side, face buried now in her hair. One leg had worked its way in between hers, while his right hand was now holding onto a very warm and shapely breast. He’d never taken liberties with her, ever.  His hand never strayed this far, nor did his leg act inappropriately. It must be the concussion, he concluded. He’d blame it on the concussion.

She must have changed into sleep attire since she had on flannel shorts and a ratty t-shirt.

“Mmm,” she moaned in her sleep.

Sherlock almost jerked his hand away, but instead he kept it where it was, hoping that he’d have a little more time to explore before she awoke. Was her skin here as soft as her neck or her hands?  As she shifted against him, one of her hands reached back and landed on his thigh.

Since she was possibly going to kill him once she woke up, he decided in for a penny, in for a pound as the saying went.  Testing the weight of her breast, he sighed as he found that he was entirely wrong about the size.  It fit perfectly in his hand. Moving his thumb just slightly, he felt through the thin material of her t-shirt her reaction to the flick he inflicted.  Very responsive to stimuli, his brain concluded.

Her hips rolled just a bit at his hand’s action, so he did it again.  Molly arched her back in her sleep, apparently wanting more than just an occasional temptation.

His growing erection startled him for a moment, knowing it was all because of Molly’s delightfully rounded backside grinding into it.

Either she was waking up or just adjusting her position, but she rolled over to face him.  He could see that she was still not awake if just by her breathing.  One of her legs was now between his, knee quite close to the very hard evidence of his arousal.  The one hand that was squeezing her breast was now on her hip, while she snuggled her warm body close to his.

He was trapped, with no way out.  If he moved, then she might wake up and realize what was going on with him.  If he didn’t move, then he’d lie there in pain.  He most definitely was not getting rid of his arousal in the near future, even with reciting all the digits to pi that he knew.

Her small hand drifted down his stomach, coming to rest directly on top of his erection. Now he was done for.  If she discovered this, there could be bodily harm done to him.

A groan of frustration escaped his lips before he could control it, causing Molly to shift again, dragging her hand up the length.

“You alright?” she sleepily said without opening her eyes.

“I,” he choked out, “I am fine.”

“Good.”

At least her hand was off, making him sigh in relief. Her knee came up a bit more forcefully than he had anticipated though, eliciting another groan.

“Do you need some pain meds?”

She still hadn’t opened her eyes to look at him.

“Um, no,”

His shirt had ridden up in all the shifting.  Her hand found the strip that had been revealed between the bottom of the shirt and the top of his pajamas. And his pajamas were low on his hips. All he could think of was he was going to die, either of Molly slaying him once she woke up or the fact that he couldn’t believe how unbelievably hard he’d gotten with just a few touches.

As he attempted to move her knee down some so to not hit vital parts, her eyes flew open.

“What are you doing?”

“Your knee is, well, I mean, I just wanted to make sure, that um, you know, I don’t, I mean, you don’t have any difficulties…”

Her hand brushed up against his front, sending shivers up and down his spine.

“Oh, oh, oh.  I am so sorry.”

“Not really sorry, just, it’s, um, rather hard…”

“I’ll say.”

He could back away from her, tell her that he was really sorry to have gotten excited by her touch, which would in turn make her feel like he really never cared about her, or he could just flip her over and grind said hardness into her welcoming heat and face the consequences.

“Consequences be damned,” he said as he quickly pushed her over to her back and buried his face in her neck.

It didn’t take Molly long to spread her legs wide, meeting him thrust for thrust, even though both were still fully clothed.

“Your head,” Molly sighed.

“Which one?”

Molly giggled back at his small joke.  It didn’t take long for clothes to be shed and bodies to be explored. Molly was particularly fond of his hands in her hair while he was really fond of her hands on his chest. Once things progressed and protection was taken care of, Molly took charge and sank down on him.

“Doctor’s orders.”

“I thought no brain activity?” he asked as she managed to twist her hips just so.

“None whatsoever.”

“I do believe you are right.”

 

“You never did tell me how you ended up with a concussion, Sherlock.”

No, he must have told John at some point. Maybe it was only in his mind.

“Molly’s lab. Must have tripped.”

“Was that the day Molly wore that short skirt.”

“Possibly.”

“She doesn’t usually wear skirts. Or tops with buttons.”

Sherlock recrossed his legs while he sat in his chair. John faced him, flipping through the latest newspaper.

“The one that happens to gape open just so.”

“You should talk.”

“She had on the blue bra, I think. Not much material to it, I believe.”

John sputtered out what sip of tea he’d taken.

“Matching knickers?”

“Not much to those either.  Oh do keep up, John. The game was most definitely on.”

John snorted out a laugh as Sherlock’s pen worked across the paper he had on his lap.

“You mean to tell me that you got a concussion because you tripped while attempting to look down Molly Hooper’s blouse?”

“Well, it was either that or look up her skirt.”

“You? Really?”

“Really.”

Sherlock burst out laughing now, followed by giggles from John.

“Oh, I am so telling Mary.”

“No secrets among bros?”

“And when did you start saying bros?”


End file.
